brrrRRING...brrrRRING...brrrRRING...

No way can it be time to get up yet. Nope, that's right 4:45. It's my first day of work in seven months. Why did I choose "cook at a cattle station" again? Oh right, food and accomodation included and no place to spend money. I stumble to the kitchen where lights and music (horrible top 40 pop music, no less) are already blaring.

Amelia, my boss, already has the meat cooking, and I get to do eggs. I'm cooking for 10 this morning, so I decide scrambled is the best way to go and do a whole dozen. Later I'm told, "Scrambled is for when you're trying to save eggs, so do half the number of eggs than people. Add some milk and really whisk them to get air in so they're really fluffy." Half an egg per person is piddly; I eat 3 eggs myself at home. Also, in my experience, people take more than one egg's worth when they're scrambled.

As everyone exits the kitchen, Amelia instructs me to make a cake for "smoko" (smoke break). "There should be recipes for cakes without butter in the book." Oh yea, we're out of butter. I panic as I look through the pantry, cold room, and store room and come up with no flour either. There is oatmeal, so I decide to improvise individual oatmeal in muffin tins. They explode almost immediately, so I choose undercooked rather than impossible mess and possibly no food if they completely bubbled over.

I get yelled at for thinking there was no flour since someone put it in the other cold room (I was not aware there was another cold room). But I did make something, so crisis averted.

People were in for lunch in about three groups. Ki-Vi is on her own. "So how late do you guys work?" "Dinner is at 7:00, so..." "That's a lot to expect out of people." "But time flies. I can't believe I've already had lunch!" My day is crawling, but I do admit that days and weeks did fly by after the first few panic-filled days.

That afternoon, I scour recipes left by former cooks and organize them into meals and desserts. I also start to organize the pantry and store room. We have a freezer full of mince (ground beef), some lamb chops, 10 kg plain flour, 10 kg self raising flour, 1 huge bag of potatoes, 2 huge bags of onions, 1 large box of apples, 1 large box of carrots, many cans of coconut milk and sweetened condensed milk, and some random cans of other food, but not much else. We weren't going to starve, but we had lots of similar meals until a big grocery trip was arranged and a "killer" done and aged.

For dinner, I cooked some mince (ground beef) and topped it with potatoes and carrots. It was beautiful; all the carrots and potatoes cooked (unlike many subsequent meals). There just wasn't enough for everyone; Dave had to eat leftovers. "Cook more food, lots more," I'm instructed.

By the time I finish dishes, it's 8:30 or 9:00. This may not sound late, but I soon made my lights-out time 9:00. It was another short night made even shorter by my anxiety keeping me awake thinking of what I had to do the next day.

Double the Arrests, Double the Fun

Arrest Number 1:

After a couple drinks in Melbourne, Scott, Adele, and I walked to Melbourne Central station to catch the train to the suburbs, where we were staying. The departures screen informed us that our next train left in 15 minutes, so they sat down for a rest. 

Scott swiftly turned around and grabbed the handrail of the “up” escalator, but he could only support himself for a few seconds. When he had slid back down, he said, “Mon, get a video of me!” So I obliged and shot a short video.

On his third time up, two transport security officers came over and tried to get his attention, “Sir, what are you doing? Sir, get down. Sir, that’s how people get hurt.” One officer spoke with Scott, and the other addressed myself then Adele. “Do you know it’s illegal to take pictures down here?” He pointed to a sign directly behind me that I clearly had not seen. It looked something like this, but it also included a camera icon. 

“Ohmygod, no! I’ll delete them right now.” “Well don’t worry about that now.” My mouth went dry. Shit. “Do you have ID?”

“Are you all English?” I overheard Scott’s officer. “We are," he indicated himself and Adele, "but she’s American,” Scott replied.

I handed him my driver’s license. “Are you a resident or traveling?” “We’re all traveling on working holiday visas.” He wrote down my name and asked my date of birth. He wanted to get correct documentation since America is not down with the rest of the world, which writes dates day-month; we write dates month-day.

He asked for Adele’s ID. Now, Adele had done nothing wrong, so she had taken a step back. She looked as terrified as I felt (and, as it turns out, also looked). He took her info down in his notebook, as well.

As he handed us back our IDs, Adele asked what happens next. “Oh this one’s trouble,” he indicated to the other officer but offered no explanation. The guy who had been talking with Scott piped up, “We can’t fine you because you’re not residents.” Sigh of relief.

Scott later informed us that as soon as his officer saw his ID, he said, “Oh shit. You’re English, so I can’t issue a citation.” I don’t understand why the guy talking with Adele and I couldn’t have offered us the same courtesy--he just left us hanging.

And to top off almost being arrested, the departures screen lied to us. There were no more trains from that station, so we missed the last one back. Then we had to battle hundreds of others trying to hail taxis right at shift change, so it took us an hour to finally find someone who would take us there. 

Arrest Number 2: 

The next day, as we were riding the train into town, two transport officers came through the car checking everyone’s Myki (metro) card to make sure everyone paid for their ride. When he came up to us, he looked at me with my feet up on the seat and said, “Do you know that having your feet on the seat is a finable offence.” Crap not again. “No.” “I’ll need to see your ID.”

I start to retrieve my license. “Since I’ve caught you doing it, I will have to make a report. If the transport authority decides to issue a citation, it will come in the mail.” I feel immediately relieved because, having been through this the night before, I now know I won’t be fined.

Handing him my license I answer, “Ok,” polite and agreeable, “I’m American, so how does that work?” He gets snippy, “You’re not a resident?” “No, sir.” “Are you living in Melbourne?” “No.”

“Are you staying in Melbourne?” inquired his sidekick. “We’re staying outside the city tonight, but we’re staying in a hostel in the city tomorrow.” “How long have you been in Melbourne?” “Just for the weekend; I’m going to Adelaide Tuesday.”

The guy jumps back in, “Common sense tells you not to put your feet on the seat. Do they have trains in the state of” he checks my ID “Illinois?” “Yes.” “Do they allow you to put your feet on the seats there?” I wasn’t going to stoop to his rudeness level and reply that no one really cares if you put your feet on the seat, nor would anyone get fined for having feet on the seat. If a transport employee did come through and cared enough, they would just ask you to please put your feet on the floor.

“To be honest, I’ve never ridden the train in Illinois.” That was a lie, but really it’s been years since I did. He reiterated the common sense bit and moved on, not bothering to take down my information.

By the way, it’s not as if I had muddy or even dirty shoes, in which case common sense would have kicked in, and I would not have had them on the seat. Also, I could have informed him that the train from Melbourne to Adelaide does not have such a rule, since we all had our feet up a couple weeks prior. Had he been polite about the whole thing, I may have felt sorry for putting my feet on the seat, but as he was exceedingly rude, I don’t.

The Time We Lost Corinne at the Aquarium

"We Lost" because she had no idea she was lost in the first place. So I can't blame her and say "The Time Corinne Got Lost at the Aquarium" because she wasn't lost; she knew where she was the whole time. But I digress...

The summer after 8th grade, my family vacationed in California. We had fun in the sun, along with some carsickness while driving US 101/CA 1 from San Francisco to Monterey, where we met up with some family. 

We visited the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I remember they had a big jelly fish exhibit, a place to pet rays, a penguin exhibit, and a tide pool, among others.  

Toward the end of the visit, we were gathering up everyone to go to lunch. Everyone was accounted for, except my 7-year-old sister, Corinne. We went back to the last exhibit, but she was nowhere in sight. Since penguins were her favorite animal, we checked that area, but she wasn't there, either.

My parents decided to have her name announced over the loud speakers. "Corinne, please meet your family under the giant whales." There were two life-size whale sculptures hanging from the ceiling close to the exit. We waited for a few minutes, but she didn't show. They made the announcement again, but still no Corinne. 

We were starting to worry; I mean, she had probably been kidnapped. We had been warned two years previous on our Disney World trip that people will snatch up children, take them into the bathroom, change their hair color and clothes, and kidnap them. We sent out search parties to look for her throughout the aquarium.

I don't remember how many times her name was announced or how long we waited, but after what seemed like eternity, Corinne comes ambling up to us, like nothing's wrong! "Where have you been?!?" we shrieked. "Uuuhh," she looks at us like we're bonkers, "in the gift shop." For reference, the whales meeting place was immediately outside the gift shop, so clearly, no one had thought to look for her there. 

It ends up, she went into the gift shop, thinking that's the natural end to a day at the aquarium. To her credit, it was in our family--we love souvenirs, or at least browsing through knick knacks, trinkets, and other kitsch. So how no one considered she might be there, I'll never know. 

She actually heard announcements over the loud speakers. "I always listen to those things, but they are never about me, so I'm not going to listen to them any more," she reasoned, continuing to browse. Oh, the rational mind of a 7-year-old.

She was scolded, and the three of us girls were instructed to always listen to announcements because you never know when one will be about you.

Damn it, I Forgot to Check my Boobs!

My sister, Lauren, and I were on our own for dinner in Key West one night, so we walked most of the way down Duval Street looking for a place to eat. Along the way, a bug flew down my shirt, so I start flailing, trying to get the bug out. 

Thinking I succeeded, I calmed down... only to feel the flutter of its little wings right in my cleave! I can only imagine what those around me thought as I proceeded to yank my collar out and reach down to scoop the little guy out. 

But I didn't know if I had gotten all the bug parts out, and, because I didn't want to forget and find a random wing later, I was going to check in the restroom. However, I forgot, so upon returning to the table, I said, "Damn it, I forgot to check my boobs!"